


Coffee, Black

by Lywinis



Series: One Shots -- Capsicoul [19]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, And Steve is the art history professor, Getting Together, M/M, Phil is a total widower dad, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson opened his coffee shop twelve years ago after his wife died. His son, Clint, runs the shop with him. Natasha is their backup. It's a good life, a small family, but Phil can't help but feel a little lonely.</p>
<p>And then, one day, everything changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee, Black

Phil’s day started at four in the morning. The alarm went off, he rolled out of bed, and he tucked his feet into his slippers. His tags rattled around his neck, but then again, they always did, a reminder of how far he’d come. He touched them once, for luck, and went to get the coffee started before his shower. He passed Clint’s door, his fist meeting the wood four times in rapid succession, knowing that the kid would be up when he got back.

The shower was hot, though the pipes creaked, and he was efficient, leaving enough water for his son. He stepped out, his robe around him as Clint shuffled past, all bed head and bare skin as he hitched up his boxers. Phil snapped his towel at the kid and got a glare in return.

He made up for it by making waffles.

At five, he was dressed and ready, as was Clint, and breakfast dishes were done and put away. They went downstairs, unlocking the shop as the dark streets stirred. Clint filled the grinders, the noise and the scent sending Phil’s brain working as he counted out the drawer for the morning. Clint placed a steaming cup of the first roast next to his hand before bustling off to fill the roasters, and Phil smiled as he sipped it. Clint made damn good coffee.

He would hope so, because Phil had taught him how.

There was always a line out the door in the morning, people lining up outside just to get the first roast of the day at the Nest. Tucked between 104th and Broadway, it was as niche as it got, with chic little tables and smooth white walls broken with classic pieces of artwork.

Clint manned the mop during the day, Phil took the orders, and Natasha filled them. The three of them were a team; Natasha had walked in one day, seeking a job while she was in college. Phil’s shop had become permanent enough in the New York bloodstream that he could afford to pay her well enough that she decided to stay.

It was nice, a good pace for a job that was hectic in the morning and quiet and smooth the rest of the day until the supper rush. He walked the floor, talking to customers, shaking hands and being himself, and it was something he enjoyed. Clint bopped along to whatever he had on his iPod while Natasha hummed snatches of songs she’d learned in Russian Literature on campus. His regulars were always there with a smile and tips that they split between the three of them, and no one seemed to mind the wait. The pastries and coffee might have had something to do with it, but Phil suspected it was more of Natasha’s death glare over the counter the first time someone snapped their fingers to get her attention.

* * *

 

And then, one day, something changed.

Phil was clearing a table when he walked in, looking unsure of himself. Phil cleared the last of the coffee mugs, his rag swiping the table clean, and then he bustled over to him, a smile on his face.

“Welcome to the Nest,” he said, juggling the cups. “First time here?”

He nodded.

“I’m Phil. I’m the owner. My boy, Clint, and my friend Natasha, we want you to feel at home. So you order when you’re ready, and we’ll get you the best cup of coffee in New York, guaranteed.”

Then, the guy smiled.

Phil was in so much trouble.

He was handsome. Large blue eyes behind chic wire framed glasses, tall and blond, a smile that lit up his face, and a quirk to his mouth that hinted at hidden humor. He filled out his jeans nicely, and his sweater looked both stylish and soft to the touch. He nodded, his brow jumping as he did.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if it isn’t, Mister…?”

“No, no, call me Phil,” he said, the back of his neck heating. “We’re not formal here. You’re welcome to have a seat. In here, you’re family.”

“I…thank you,” he said, and smiled at him again. Phil almost dropped the mugs he was holding, and the clink they made brought him back to his senses.

“Right. Let me go get these in the washer, and I’ll come back and see how you’re doing, okay?”

“I’d like that, Phil,” he said. His voice rumbled in his chest and made Phil’s knees weak. “I’m Steve, by the way. I teach art history down at NYU.”

“Wow. Well, you sound like you need some coffee to get going, so I’ll let you get to that.” He swallowed. “Tell you what, since you don’t seem convinced, first cup is on the house. I’ll bring it out myself, and that’ll prove you wrong. How do you take it?”

“Just black, please,” he said, chuckling. “I was going to go over my lesson plan again, so I’ll make myself comfortable over by the window, then.”

Phil nodded, and his eye caught Clint leaning on his mop, staring at him. He straightened, mugs clinking, and hurried to the back. Clint followed, under the pretense that he was going to empty his mop bucket.

“What was that?” Clint asked, smirking.

Phil stuffed the mugs in the washer, turning it on without answering. Clint folded his arms.

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing, huh? You don’t give away coffee over nothing, pop.”

“Clint…”

“This isn’t about mom,” Clint said, his eyes softening. “She’s been gone a long time, pop.”

“Twelve years.” Phil heaved a sigh. He missed Holly every day. He always would. She was an amazing woman. “Am I allowed to move on, then?”

“Never said you weren’t. I was just gonna give you shit over it.” Clint smirked, dumping out his bucket. He scooted out of the back room, grinning.

* * *

 

The roast was perfect. Phil sniffed it and then set it to brew, drawing out a long measure of coffee for Steve. True to his word, he sat with his lesson plans in front of him, pen in hand. Phil watched him idly chew the pen cap and he shivered, the cup rattling on the saucer.

Cup and saucer in hand, he snagged an apple turnover from the display, still hot from the small ovens in the attached kitchens. He brought both the mug and the pastry over, setting them down on the table within reach.

“Oh! Thank you.” He smiled that smile at him again and he was already half gone. Steve’d said less than fifty words to him, and he was smitten like a teenager.

He took a sip of the coffee, his eyes closing as he savored it. Phil folded his arms in a pretense of mock patience. Steve turned to look at him, and Phil raised a brow at him.

“I don’t know if I’d call it the best coffee in New York,” he said. Phil’s brow furrowed, but then he smiled, his eyes a little wicked. “It’s a damn good cup of coffee, though.”

“I guess that means you’ll have to keep coming back, then, because we do our roasts and grinds fresh every morning.” Phil’s lips quirked up.

“I just might,” he said, returning the look.

Clint chose right then to breeze by the table. “Listen, sir. My pop’s a good guy, so please take him out to lunch so I don’t have to listen to you two yammer about coffee all damn day? You’re both terrible at flirting.”

Phil swatted him on the back of the head. “Go clean the damn milk steamer, boy!”

Clint retreated, cackling, and Phil turned back, flushing red.

“I’d like to apologize for my son, he’s a knucklehead who  _can’t keep his mouth shut_.” Phil glared over his shoulder. Clint saluted him from behind the counter.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I think he gives good advice. What time do you take your lunch break?”

“Me? Uh, I usually don’t.”

“All the more reason to come and eat with me, then.” He smiled. “It’ll be fun. You can tell me what you know about coffee, I’ll tell you what I know about art history, and then we can meet in the middle and talk about what we know about dinner plans.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” Steve closed his lesson plans and leaned on his hand, smiling.

Phil swallowed, and looked down, his own smile wide. “All right then, it’s a date.”

There was a whoop from behind the counter, then an “ow!” as Natasha smacked Clint in the back of the head. Phil nodded at Natasha, who grinned at him. He turned back to Steve, who was still regarding him with a small smile.

“Definitely a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Something short and sweet to make up for Douleur's latest chapter when it's done. I would like to apologize in advance for the sads, but Douleur is NOT going to be a happy ride. So fluff bolsters me.


End file.
